


thanks, nice ass

by Piyo13, smolmerci



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Background Relationships, First Kiss, M/M, in which they play a drinking game, phichimettiweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 06:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11663646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/pseuds/Piyo13, https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolmerci/pseuds/smolmerci
Summary: “What do you want to play?”Chris considers this, eyes twinkling, before finally settling on an answer. “Two truths and a lie?”“You’re on,” Phichit says, decisively. “But you’re buying.”





	thanks, nice ass

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this work is for phichimetti week and we're very excited-- the prompt for today was firsts, so this fic is about a drinking game and a first. ;)
> 
> enjoy!

“Merci, beau cul.” That’s how it all starts—Phichit’s just handed Chris a coffee, and Phichit’s pretty sure he knows the phrase. He could have sworn the second part was spelled _beaucoup_ , but then again this is French and letters as a concept seem to be subjective in French, so he just figures he’s been pronouncing it wrong.

“You’re welcome,” he says, and continues on with his life.

From then on, that’s how Chris thanks him—“Merci beau cul,” and a smile which, frankly, makes Phichit’s heart do a funny thing—and it’s all well and fine, until the four of them (Phichit, Chris, Yuuri, and Victor) are out at a bar together, and Victor sets a drink down in front of Phichit.

“Merci beau cul!” Phichit says, knowing Victor speaks French, and Victor bursts into laughter. Chris is not looking at him, and when Phichit exchanges a glance with Yuuri, Yuuri looks just as confused as he feels. “Did I not say it right?” Phichit asks. “I thought I said it just like Chris did—”

Victor, between peals of laughter, manages to choke out, “That explains a lot.”

Phichit frowns, and shoots a glance to Chris, who’s covering his mouth with a hand and very pointedly not meeting Phichit’s eyes. “Explains a lot of _what!?”_ Phichit asks, concern growing. Victor shakes his head, despite Yuuri’s glance in his direction.

“You’ll have to ask Chris about that, sorry!” Victor says, visibly fighting off a smile as he slinks away towards the dance floor, Yuuri in tow. Phichit scowls, and rounds on Chris.

Chris grins, and Phichit has a moment to despair before Chris answers.

“Win it off me,” he says. Phichit blinks.

“Win it off you? How?”

“Mm… beat me at a drinking game!” Chris suggests. Phichit eyes him, hesitating but amused, as Chris blinks innocently at him. He doesn’t buy it for a second.

“As long as it doesn’t involve pole dancing,” Phichit says, finally, wondering what exactly he’s gotten himself into. “What do you want to play?”

Chris considers this, eyes twinkling, before finally settling on an answer. “Two truths and a lie?”

“You’re on,” Phichit says, decisively. “But you’re buying.”

“Deal,” Chris says, and gets up to get them a few rounds.

While he’s gone, Phichit makes an attempt to spot Yuuri in the crowd. Well, really he’s trying to spot Victor—the silver hair makes it so much easier—and sure enough, they’re together, giving each other sappy looks as Yuuri says something bashfully into his glass. They’re both smiling, and Phichit’s reassured enough to check his phone out of habit.

“Ah ah, Phichit, no phones during the game! For all I know, you could be Googling me,” Chris teases, setting down two lines of shots. There’s six each, bright purple (there’s a menu on the wall by the bar, so Phichit assumes these are the infamous _Purple Starf*ckers,_ which, of course Chris would choose those), and Chris puts them all in the middle of their table.  
  
“Oh, I Google all my competitors,” Phichit says, with a sly smile. “Especially the ones with cute pets and excellent selfies.”

Chris feigns flattered embarrassment, one hand at his chest. “Why thank you, Liebling,” he says, smoothly. “I could say the same about you.”

There’s a slight pause where they’re both smiling at each other, and Phichit’s _almost_ convinced there’s something there—but this is Christophe Giacometti, and he flirts with everyone, and they’re friends. “So,” he tilts his head slightly, sets his phone pointedly aside with the hamster case facing up, “who’s going first?”

“As the challenger,” Chris replies, setting his own phone next to Phichit’s, “I believe it’s only fair for me to be rushed into thinking of three things. You know the rules?”  
  
“Two truths, one lie,” Phichit says, “if I guess wrong, I drink, if I guess right, you do?”

“You’ve played this before?”  
  
“I think I’ll save that story for later.” Phichit winks, and Chris laughs, delighted.

“I can tell already that you’re a formidable opponent both on and off the ice, Phichit Chulanont,” Chris says, with no small amount of fondness in his voice. It makes Phichit’s cheeks heat up. “Alright. One, my first language is Italian. Two, I’ve had Duchess for four years. Three, when I was twenty-one, I went to a drag show in New York with Vitya and we got so drunk that Yakov had to pick us up at four in the morning, which he still grumbles about to this day.”

“Okay, well, that last one is absolutely true,” Phichit says, and Chris laughs again. Phichit deliberates, and Chris watches him with eyes full of mischief. “I think,” Phichit hesitates, and Chris’ smile widens. “I think you probably grew up learning more than one language at once? German and Italian? The first one is a lie,” he guesses.  
  
Chris’ eyebrows raise, and then he reaches for a shot. “You’re right,” he confirms, and knocks it back.

Phichit grins. “Alright, then. One,” he stops, as if to remember the details, and tries not to laugh. “The first time I played this game was in college, with Yuuri, and he got drunk and ate two pizzas by himself, after somehow getting the pizza boy’s number.” Chris chuckles, sparing a glance to where Yuuri is now innocently chatting with Victor, two half-full pint glass in front of them. “Two, it was my sister Prija who first got me to watch _The King And The Skater._ ” Prija would, Phichit thinks, be very interested in the details of Phichit’s night. “Three, the first person I came out to was actually Ciao Ciao, by accident.”

“Hmmmm,” Chris leans back, thinking, and Phichit’s eyes dip to where Chris’ collarbone peeks out—he’s got three buttons undone, which would look tacky on most, but privately Phichit thinks that Chris probably hasn’t yet encountered a modesty rule that he couldn’t shamelessly get away with ignoring. “Ciao Ciao?”  
  
“Nope,” Phichit says, grinning triumphantly. “Yuuri ate three pizzas, and threw up all over our bathroom.”

Chris laughs, shaking his head, and takes another shot. “Incredible.”

“How are those, by the way?” Phichit asks, slyly. “As good as they look?”

“Are you smack-talking me, Phichit Chulanont?” Chris gasps, mock-offended. “Don’t worry, caro, you’ll find out soon enough.”

“Well, I sure hope so. Your turn, I believe.”

“So it is,” Chris replies, and pauses, thinking. “I used to date my choreographer, I used to date Vitya, and my first pet was actually a goat called Franzi.”

Phichit opens his mouth to reply, sure of his answer—who _actually_ has a goat named Franzi?—but something in the way Chris is smiling makes him think again. “You… hm.”

Chris helpfully nudges one of the shots towards Phichit.

“Hey, I haven’t made my guess yet!”

“No rush, Schatzi,” Chris says, smiling warmly. Phichit shakes his head quickly.

“Alright, alright… dating your choreographer?”

Chris grins and pushes the shot all the way over to Phichit. “Nope! Never dated Vitya.”

“ _Really,_ ” Phichit says, surprised, and takes the shot. Chris shrugs. “I thought you two had a vibe like—”

“Never _dated,_ ” Chris clarifies, and Phichit ‘ahh’s in understanding.

“Well, cheers to that.” The shot’s pretty good, actually— there’s some amaretto in there, and probably blue curaçao, both of which Phichit really likes. “Okay. Yuuri was my first kiss, I’ve never had any pets except for my hamsters, and…” he pauses, smiling. “The first time I saw you, I was too nervous to talk to you.”  
  
“Why were you nervous?” Chris asks, immediately, and Phichit raises his eyebrows.  
  
“Is that a guess?”  
  
“No,” Chris says, smiling. “There’s no rule against questions in my version.”  
  
“Fine, I’ll allow it,” Phichit says, playfully, and Chris looks pleased. “Um, I’ve always admired your skating? More than Victor, even.” Chris’ face becomes slightly incredulous, and Phichit explains. “You’re...not like Victor, when you skate. So many other people try to do the same thing, because they think they’ll get rewarded for it—and sometimes they are. But you’ve always done your own thing, and you’re an entertainer.” He pauses, smiling a little nervously, and wishes he had a drink to sip at. “As someone who also decided to make my own path, I’ve always liked that about you.”

Chris looks at him, and there’s something soft in his eyes. “Yuuri wasn’t your first kiss,” he says, after a long moment. “And...thank you for sharing that with me. It means more than you know.”

Phichit sighs, still feeling a little vulnerable, and takes his shot. “How’d you know?”

“I feel like you’d have photos of former pets,” Chris says, offhand, and Phichit blinks.

“How do you know I don’t?” he asks, and Chris suddenly looks sheepish, though he’s still smiling.

“There was nothing on your Instagram,” he says, and Phichit laughs.

“That sounds like you went through the whole thing,” he teases, and Chris’ expression says it all. “I guess I can’t really judge, though.” They keep making eye contact—like they’re about to start something, or maybe they’re already in something.

“So who was your first kiss?” Chris asks, leaning forward slightly and arching one eyebrow. It’d be lewd on anyone else, but it makes Phichit laugh.

“That’s still a secret, and it’s your turn,” he deflects.

Chris sighs and rests his chin in his hands. “Hmm. Okay. _My_ first kiss was with a girl. I lost my virginity when I was sixteen. And...my coach has walked in on me twice.”

“That escalated quickly,” Phichit says, for lack of anything better to say—any of these could be true or false. Chris’ face is carefully neutral, and he obviously knows it’s a difficult round, because his lips are pressed shut as if to remind himself not to add anything. “Who was the girl?” he asks, since he can.

“A classmate,” Chris says, and doesn’t elaborate.

“I think you’re lying,” Phichit guesses, and Chris grins. He slides over a shot glass, and Phichit stares at it before sighing and downing it. “Damn, I thought for sure—”

“Didn’t say it was particularly enjoyable,” Chris says, smugly.

“Well, fair enough. What was the lie?” Phichit asks. They’re not even halfway through the shots, but this is already intriguing enough that Phichit could just ask questions for the rest of the night, and listen to Chris talk.

“Everyone always assumes I was so young when I started having sex,” Chris says. “I was actually almost twenty.”

“Huh,” Phichit says, once again caught not knowing what to say. The alcohol in his system is starting to make itself felt, though, so maybe that’s why he continues—“So who were the people your coach walked in on you with?” He has a hunch one of them is currently in this bar.

“Ah ah,” Chris answers, waggling a finger. “That’s a different drinking game. Besides, it’s your turn.”

“This game is too fast,” Phichit complains, much to Chris’ amusement. “Now I want to know everything about your stories and Schatzi the goat—”

“Franzi. Schatzi is you,” Chris interrupts, with a wink.

Phichit frowns. “What does Schatzi mean?” There’s something else he wanted to know, but he’s not quite sure what it is anymore.

“Sweetheart,” Chris says. He’s not even embarrassed. Phichit, on the other hand, blushes.

“Oh,” he says. Chris smiles, and gestures vaguely.

“Franzi was a gift from my grandparents for my tenth birthday, when I was spending the summer up at their farm. She made lots of milk and cheese and I don’t think there is a single thing on the farm that she didn’t try to eat at least once. Now she’s retired, though. She just chills with the donkeys.”

“Wait, you just _have_ a farm?”

Chris blinks at Phichit. “Well, no, it’s my grandparents’. I’ve always told them I’d retire there, though.”

“Wow.” Phichit, while processing this, thinks of something to say. “Okay. I grew up in the city,” he starts. “I look more like my mom, and one of my little brothers reminds me of Yuuri.”

“You are so obviously a city boy,” Chris says, immediately, and Phichit shrugs with a helpless grin. “I’m not sure between the other two, though.”

“Do you give up?” Phichit teases.

Chris playfully narrows his eyes. “Never.” It might just be the alcohol, but Phichit’s about ninety percent sure that eye contact like _this_ doesn’t happen with just anyone. “Your little brother isn’t like Yuuri?” Smiling, Phichit slides a shot across the table. Chris groans, but drinks it.

“I look more like my dad,” Phichit explains. “And Chaisai reminds me so much of Yuuri it’s kind of hilarious, actually.”

“I’d like to request photographic evidence,” Chris says, mock-seriously, as if he’s considering challenging Phichit’s answer—which is fine, because Phichit’s photo albums are neatly organized on his phone, and he’s got pictures from his last visit home. Then again—

“Oh, so now you want me to use my phone?” Phichit grabs it anyway as Chris laughs. Finding a good picture is easy, and he slides the phone over to Chris, who looks at it with obvious interest.

“You do look like your father,” Chris admits. “And that’s Prija next to you?” Phichit nods, and Chris pauses, then grins. “The one on the far right is Chaisai?”

Phichit leans closer, close enough to be reminded that he really likes whatever fragrance Chris uses. “Yeah, he gets nervous in photos. Anada, not so much.”

“I’ve always wondered what having siblings must be like,” Chris says, setting the phone down to look Phichit in the eyes. “You must miss them.”

“It was really hard at first,” Phichit says. “I missed them a lot—I missed everything. And it’s not easy to watch people go on with their lives when you’re not really involved, you know? Especially when your reality is something as… time-consuming and focused as figure skating.” It’s not often that he talks about this, but Chris is more likely to understand than most, Phichit thinks.  “But they’re really proud of me, and we Skype a lot.”

Chris’ eyes are soft when he smiles. “I’m glad.” Under the table, his knee bumps into Phichit’s. “You’ve given up a lot for this life, for this sport, and I’m… I’m happy they appreciate that, too.” He’s silent for a moment, and then adds: “I know I do.”

Chris is unusually serious as he says it, and Phichit blinks, trying to piece together what Chris means and if—is Chris—?

“I just mean,” Chris says, taking Phichit’s silence as the question it is, “that skating is what let us meet. And you skate beautifully, too.”

“Oh,” Phichit says. He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. He wonders if Chris notices, even as he breaks eye contact and looks down at the empty glasses in front of him. “It’s ah, it’s your turn, by the way.”

“So it is,” Chris says. He sits back, and only then does Phichit realize how close they’d actually _been_. “Alright, I once got drunk in Paris with Vitya and we woke up the next day in a bus stop in London, if skating didn’t work out I was going to study literature at university, and my favorite color is blue.”

“I’d believe way worse of you and Victor.” Phichit grins, and Chris laughs. “I guess I could see you as a literature student? So I think your favourite colour must be something else.” He’s promptly passed another shot by a smug Chris.

“I was going to study physics at CERN,” Chris says, triumphantly, and Phichit squints as he sets the shot glass down, trying to remember if he knows what that is. “It’s the largest particle physics lab in the world. Very cool place.”

“Didn’t you guys also make the internet or something?”

“Not quite. The internet is the network, the World Wide Web’s an information space,” Chris explains, and Phichit can’t help but smile at him again.

“I never would have guessed,” he says, “that _the_ Christophe Giacometti is a _total nerd._ ” Now that he thinks about it, though, it does make sense for the best spinner in men’s singles to be into physics.

Chris winks. “You should see my glasses.”

“Okay,” Phichit says, loudly, mostly to avoid imagining how good Chris would look in glasses, “I studied communications, I’m better at Mario Kart than Yuuri, and I caught Sara Crispino and Mila Babicheva holding hands under the table at the GPF banquet.”

“Oh, _Phichit,_ ” Chris says, feigning scandalised outrage, “such a gossip!”

“Am I being horrible? Are you offended?” Phichit is thoroughly unapologetic, and Chris keeps playing along.

“Yes, you’re very bad,” Chris says, in the most outrageously flirtatious tone he’s used yet. Phichit can’t help but laugh, even if his cheeks feel very warm. “It’s a good thing I caught them kissing in the stairwell afterwards, or I might have been quite surprised.” Phichit pouts, gossip ruined, and Chris smiles. “I think you’re lying about communications.”

“No, that’s true! I have it on my Twitter, too, you should know that,” Phichit scolds, and Chris sighs before taking a shot. “No one beats Yuuri at Mario Kart. I don’t know how, but that boy actually gets better after a few beers.”

“Forgive me, I’ll memorize your Twitter bio as soon as we’re done here,” Chris jokes. “Hmm. I learned French so I could talk to Vitya, I’m scared of spiders, and my first boyfriend gave me a jar of paper hearts on Valentine’s day, right before I broke up with him to go celebrate my birthday single.”

“First one’s a lie,” Phichit says. “You knew before, I think. Also, _wow_ , that’s awful.”

Chris smacks his lips after the shot, which leads Phichit to suspect that he’s also kind of tipsy. “I’m a little ashamed now, of course, but back then I felt staying with him would be dishonest, and I didn’t give back the jar because I thought it would be insulting.”

“I once told a guy I couldn’t date him because he smelled like boiled cabbage,” Phichit says, and Chris laughs before he realizes Phichit’s playing the game. “I once told a different guy I couldn’t date him because he dyed his hair purple and it looked really bad, and I got dumped because I ‘wear too much eyeliner’ once.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Chris says, immediately. “Your eyes are beautiful, and the eyeliner looks amazing on you.” They make eye contact again, and Phichit wonders if that’s what he’s thinking right now—if he can read the tentative, self-conscious delight in Phichit’s eyes. “I think that must be the lie. Or it should be.”

“I never dated anyone with purple hair,” Phichit says, passing over another shot. Chris drinks it, then looks over at the remaining two.

“Well, Schatzi,” Chris says. “If you win this one, you win the game, I believe.” It’s true. Phichit’s had four, and Chris must be at six. “One, I have a private chat going with Yuri Plisetsky that’s just pictures of cute cats. Two, I won a drag contest once. Three, I can’t skate in competition unless someone hugs me first.”

Phichit groans. “All of these are unbelievable for different reasons.” He’s seen Chris hug his coach, so that could be true. Yuri Plisetsky likes cats, but a _groupchat?_ “Is the groupchat called Group Chat?” he asks, because he vaguely remembers that being French, and he’s supposed to be asking Chris about something to do with French.

“Group _Chat_ ,” Chris says, clearly proud of the pun, with a slightly different—correct, probably—pronunciation.

“You didn’t win a drag competition,” Phichit says, decisively, and Chris sighs.

“Yes. Vitya won,” he says, and downs the shot. Out of solidarity, and slight concern for Chris’ liver, Phichit drinks the last one.

“And _I_ win,” Phichit says, “so—”

“Fine,” Chris says, “‘Merci beau cul’ means—” Chris pauses. Phichit briefly thanks the universe that he didn’t have to admit that he had no idea what he was asking anymore. “Are you sure you want me to tell you?”

“You’re being _so cryptic,_ ” Phichit complains, pouting just enough to find himself a little ridiculous. Chris grins, and Phichit leans forward to look up at him through his lashes, which is—possibly the most obvious move in the book, but he doesn’t really care anymore. He’s also not sure how Chris’ hand got so close to his, on the table, by those empty shot glasses, but they could reach out just a little and touch each other—

Chris laughs a little, low and rumbly, and Phichit is immediately distracted by how much he wants to _feel_ it. Their knees brush under the table as Chris leans in, too, so that his mouth is right next to Phichit’s ear. “It means ‘thanks, nice ass,’” Chris says. His accent’s just barely noticeable, and that deep voice is _so close,_ it would be so easy to just turn and kiss him and—

Phichit says the first thoughtless thing that comes to mind, once he processes Chris’ answer.

“You were looking?”

“I’m always looking,” Chris says, cheekily. They’ve been making eye contact this whole time, but somehow it seems more intense now. Neither of them moves.

“Oh, well,” Phichit says, flustered. He’s not usually flustered. That’s usually Yuuri’s job. For a second, he swears he can feel that last shot twisting around in his brain. “Um. In that case,” he continues, “merci, beau cul.”

Chris’ eyes light up as soon as he finishes, and he moves his hand forward, palm up. Phichit takes it. He’s sure they’re both blushing—Chris is, and his face feels hot. They’re holding hands now. Chris looks like he might say something; nothing needs to be said, though, in this air thick with tension.

He’s so close that Phichit closes his eyes and—

“So? Did you tell him? About ‘merci beau cul’?” Victor asks, setting an elbow down on the table with all the grace of the extremely tipsy. Which is to say  _none_.

Phichit and Chris flinch and look up, and Victor’s eyes widen as their hands slide apart. “Oh,” he says. “Did I—?”

“I’m going to get some water,” Phichit says, still a little red in the face. He sees Chris shoot a look at Victor out of the corner of his eye as he leaves.

Phichit heads straight for the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror and questioning his life choices. His eyeliner is still immaculate, but he’s sort of wondering if maybe he’s misread what’s going on. He’s still staring when Yuuri gracefully—tipsily—swings out from one of the stalls.

“Phichit! Why are you sad?” Yuuri asks, too loudly, as he puts his arm around Phichit’s shoulders.

“I’m not sad, I just… do you think—I thought Chris might have been hitting on me?”

Yuuri stares at him. “Of course he was hitting on you.” He pauses. “Did… did you _not_ want him to hit on you?”

“I thought maybe he was just—Victor made it sound like a joke? Maybe I read it wrong?” The more he talks, though, the more Phichit realizes he just sounds silly.

“That’s silly, just ignore that,” Yuuri says, and briefly Phichit wonders if sober Yuuri will be shocked at the idea that someone could ignore Victor Nikiforov. “Sometimes Vitya’s got bad timing. You should go find Chris, okay?” Yuuri’s eyes are shining with conviction, and he presses a sloppy kiss to Phichit’s temple. “You’re a beautiful genius and of course he likes you.”

“You are so drunk,” Phichit says, struggling not to laugh. Yuuri _winks_ at him.

“I’m the best drunk. You should take my advice.” With that, he pulls them both out of the bathroom, and once they’re back at the table he whisks Victor away. Chris has a glass of what looks like plain club soda, which is probably a good idea.

“I, um—”

“Phichit—”

They speak at the same time, and then both fall silent.

“You go first,” Chris says eventually, and Phichit takes a breath.

“Sorry, I had a moment of self-doubt. But I,” he pauses, and Chris looks at him encouragingly. “I really like you? Like, the _like-_ like—ugh. Look, I’m not being very smooth, but do you want to go out on a date sometime? I think we’ve—we’ve got something, here,” Phichit says, with a vague hand gesture that’s keenly felt, if not particularly expressive.

Chris seems to get it anyway. “And here I was, already about to ask you for a kiss,” he says, smiling.

Phichit blinks, and then grins. “Oh, well,” he says, sitting down next to Chris and sidling up close. “That sounds like a fair trade to me.”

The kiss, when it comes, is perfect. It’s tender and sweet and Chris’ thumb brushes Phichit’s cheek, and when Chris moves to deepen the kiss, Phichit lets out a soft moan.

Somehow, he and Chris make their way away from the bar and back to the hotel they’re both staying at, though Chris is on the sixth floor and Phichit on the fourth. They get to Phichit’s door, but before he can open it, he finds himself with his back pushed against the wall, Chris’ leg between his thighs, being kissed completely senseless.

He can’t say he minds.

They break apart what has to be entire _minutes_ later, panting heavily, and Chris stands up straight but doesn’t move back. Phichit looks up at him.

“You should—do you want to—um. Come inside?”

Chris is outlined against the hallway lights, his bleached-blond hair almost glowing; beautiful. But he’s shaking his head.

“ _Miini Schatzi_ ,” he says, running his hand through Phichit’s hair, and Phichit hates how weak in the knees that makes him, “not only have we had too much to drink, but I haven’t even made you dinner yet.”

Phichit understands—he might not be fully on _board_ with it, but he _understands_ —and so he seizes onto the most important part.

“Yet?”

“How about I give you my phone number, and you text me, and we’ll figure it out from there?”

Phichit’s phone is in his hand before Chris has even finished speaking. Phichit flicks it to the ‘new contacts’ page, handing it over to Chris and watching in silence while Chris enters his information. When Phichit gets it back, there’s a heart, a kiss emoji, a peach, and the Swiss flag following Chris’ name. Smiling, he pockets his phone, and looks back up at Chris, who leans down again.

This kiss is much less senseless, much more of a—

“Promise?” Chris mumbles against Phichit’s lips.

“Promise what?” Phichit asks.

“That you’ll text me,” Chris says, punctuating his sentence with a kiss to Phichit’s nose. Phichit blushes, and smiles.

“Promise.”

“Good. Sleep well. _Sogni d’oro, sogna di me_ ,” Chris says, kissing Phichit one last time before turning and walking back to the elevators. Phichit watches until Chris steps inside and leaves. Then he makes his way inside, shuts his door, and faceplants onto the bed. Just before going to sleep, he googles what Chris said:  _sweet dreams, dream of me_.  
  
He does. 

**Author's Note:**

> miini schatzi = my sweetheart/my treasure  
> sogni d'oro, sogna di me = sweet dreams [lit., dreams of gold], dream of/about me
> 
> also re: prija, anada, and chaisai, we sort of geeked out over that one split-second shot of phichit and his family and now we have lots of headcanons that we are happy to share with you! they'll most likely be in more stuff soon :)
> 
> also you can find both of us on tumblr at piyo-13 and smol-merci! :D


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